Since Vikings First Sailed Here
by Astrid Goes For A Spin
Summary: The Hooligans have left the land of their birth and are looking for a new home. However, when they arrive on the Isle of Berk, the LEAST of their problems is the cold...


**Well, this has been through the works. Thanks a ton, ~ladylukicross , for looking this over. **

**Hey, everyone. A new member to the HTTYD fandom reminded me I have some writing to get done. Obviously this is not what you've been looking for, but I've given up excuses and this was already written, so. **

**Dragon Keeper should be updated in not too long; I'm also going to post a few one-shots and a drabble series. I'm in a huge HTTYD mood lately with the coming chilly weather! **

* * *

The walk up the beach was long and hard. The sand slipped or ground under the Chief's feet, he was carrying his throne as well as dragging a small rowboat, and he had no idea what would await him at the top.

His men groaned and complained as they followed him. The very air was formidable, ice crystals whirling through the bitter wind. The Chief had to squint to see a handspan in front of him. Sometimes large black protrusions of rock emerged from the fog, blindsiding him completely.

The temperature was vicious. The ships were freezing back in the water at the shore; they would be stuck on this miserable island until it melted. This was what made the task of getting up the beach and finding somewhere to construct shelter so very important.

He had left most of the accompanying women back at the ships to keep an eye on the children. His second-in-command trudged next to him, however, a basket heavy with clothes and blankets weighing down her shoulder.

There was no map to follow.

Finally the slope became easier and the sand thinned out until it was finally replaced by thick tufts of grass. Relieved, the chief stumbled forward and looked up.

The grass led upward, farther and farther upward. Having cleared the sea stacks, the full mountain of this tiny island was finally visible.

They went onward.

.

There was an abundance of trees and devastating storms. It was lucky they were all strong and hale, and within days had cleared enough land for shelters. The boats were well and truly frozen in, and they were trapped. Building houses took almost no time at all, and soon they had a very small group of thick houses, where they huddled around fire pits to wait out the storms.

It was on the third day that the Chief heard the first scream.

It was unlike anything he had ever heard before – primeval, inhuman, and thoroughly chillier than the terrible weather. His second heard it as well, her blond head still and attentive as she turned to face the door.

Ten people were waiting for his command. The Chief lifted his sword and held up a hand, waiting. Waiting.

The shriek came again, closer, and every hair in his thick red beard stood on end. He signaled.

They burst out of the house, bellowing war cries from sore and ice-scorched throats. There was no invading force.

A reptile hung in the air, shrouded by hail, flapping blue wings and unaffected by the storm. It screeched again, and another monster emerged from the icy mist at its call, red and as long as a ship. It opened its mouth and spat; fire glowed, making the precipitation pop and explode as it hit the house.

Immediately, the wood began to melt. Dissolve. The fire was thick and viscous and simply dripped down the planks, leaving a wide hole and letting the wind in.

The Chief was so astonished that he let his sword drop.

The beast dropped to the ground and scuttled, sweeping its tail belligerently, toward the newly-made hole in the wall. It stuck its snout, tipped with large and steaming teeth, inside, and slowly climbed in after, obviously looking for food.

The Chief raised his sword again and charged. One slash released a spurt of scalding blood from its hide, splattering down around his feet and burning holes through his leggings. The next chopped off a spine along its back. The brute turned, furious, and coughed its fire at the Chief. He dodged as the animal raised itself onto his hind legs and spread large wings, destroying what was left of his makeshift shelter.

Anger boiling hotter than that creature's blood, the Chief screamed again, and this time his sword caught the fiend right behind the neck spikes. He drove his weapon down and sliced its head clean off.

Breathing hard, the Chief turned from his fallen enemy and observed the rest of the battle. Vikings had poured out of the other two houses to join in, and the blue was in full retreat, swinging away into the whitely invisible sky.

His second staggered over to him. She was grinning from the thrill of the battle, but grimly terrified. She was bleeding on the upper arm; when he asked she waved it off, saying that the blue one had hit her with a spine from its tail.

"Chief, what _are _those things?"

He did not quite know. He had heard rumors, of course, from the people who lived south of there, the people they'd passed on their treacherous journey north. He said his best guess:

"Dragons."

.

Within two days she was dead.

It was clear it had been poison; her arm had swollen and turned a purplish-green, and soon the curse had spread to the rest of her body. She had become delirious, and no matter how the Chief prayed to Odin, no miracle occurred and they had nothing to heal her with.

He buried her on the highest spot of the island he could reach. In the days between the snowstorms he lead parties through the island, exploring, searching.

"They didn't just come from nowhere," he said, again, and again. The beasts failed to make a reappearance.

His house had to be rebuilt, as did one other, destroyed from the blue dragon's fire. He cleaned the skull of the red demon and mounted it at the top of his roof.

The Chief was constantly prepared, ready, for another attack. More houses were built among the cleared space. It was beginning to resemble a village.

There were wild boar on the island. He sent hunting parties. All the herbs and vegetables had been frozen; they survived on supplies they'd taken and stolen along the way and the fresh meat.

Winter began to get milder, and the Vikings became hopeful of departure. It was true they were looking for a new and unexplored home, but not the hell they'd discovered.

The Chief would not leave. Several had died over the winter, and they had a tiny cemetery now, overlooking the sea. On the first non-snowy day, the first day of thaw, he held a meeting.

"We've explored the island," he reminded them. "The devils had to come from somewhere. Until we find it, we aren't safe here."

"We can go back," a boy called from the middle of the crowd. "We can go back to Norway, right? I want to go home."

The Chief stalked forward and lowered himself to a crouch in front of the child. "We've no place to go back _to_, lad."

"But we can leave," his mother told the Chief, holding the ten-year-old close to her side. "Find someplace more hospitable. Warmer."

He turned to her, weary eyes making contact. She looked down.

"We're not going."

.

So they stayed. The first search for the home of the dragons – they named it the Nest, in time, although they never did find it – commenced as soon as the boats were free to move.

The Chief led the expedition, his entire fleet. They did not get close, but were barraged with dragons of every sort from every direction. Many died.

He turned back.

And the next spring, he tried again.

And tried again. And again. They planted, and had fields, and come fall, their first proper harvest. They found wild yak, and cultivated a herd for milk, and a herd for meat.

Dragon attacks came more and more frequently as their food stores increased. To display a skull on one's roof was a mark of status. In time, woodworkers were commissioned to craft elaborate statues of the most dangerous dragon the homeowner had slain.

Names sprung up for each breed, with two parts, the first insulting and vulgar, to caution: Hideous Zippleback. Deadly Nadder. They named the red dragon from the first attack the Monstrous Nightmare.

The raids often came at night now. Often, they came heralded by a warning scream, a shriek so unlike any other dragon noise that every villager cowered and dropped to the ground.

They never saw the dragon. They never fought it. It would appear briefly, concealed by the black sky, and destroy something. Houses. Streets. Carts. It was the perfect distraction for the other dragons to take advantage of.

They called that one the Night Fury.

They began hollowing out the mountain, building a sheltered hall of rock. It would take decades to complete, and it was that project along with the prospect of revenge on the beasts that kept the Vikings going.

They made contact with other tribes. They had landed, they were told, in a particularly hostile stretch of islands known as the Barbaric Archipelago. They debated and decided to call their island Berk.

With each passing winter, fewer and fewer wanted to leave. Although it was at sometimes a perilous and unsatisfactory existence, the Hooligans grew to love it. Fighting dragons became a chore. More and more dedicated to their new home, the Vikings never gave up on finding the nest.

Houses went up in flames. Food was stolen. Vikings were killed. They were determined to end the circle.

Their chief, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the First, was the most determined of all.


End file.
